Goin' Down to Mama's

The Zumba Diaries: Sisters in Pink Do the Twist

Yesterday the Zumba crew got all decked out in pink to show our support for breast cancer awareness. I was dancing (or at least approximating dance) for my mother. That's the two of us in this picture, likely taken in one of those Panama City photo booths while we were on vacation in the early sixties. (Mama thought this pixie haircut was "cute as pie." Daddy had a complete and total come-apart because he thinks all women and girls should have long hair. Mama, as you can see, suggested that he get over that:) She is a breast cancer survivor who just got another all-clear from her doctors. Several times, I've sat with her in that massive waiting room at Brookwood, where one woman after another gets called back for a mammogram. My heart beats a little faster when they call her name—and when they call mine during my annual physical. I've never experienced cancer firsthand, but so many women in my family have. Women need each other in a special way during this very personal and difficult battle. And I know that the sea of pink in the gym yesterday was more than just a gesture. It was a genuine show of sisterhood. Many thanks to Denise and the Lifetime Zumba crew for putting heart and soul into every step.

Sunday Morning Serenity

I have a confession to make. I am writing Sunday Morning Serenity on Saturday night because Sunday morning is going to be anything but serene. And in the interest of full disclosure, I think I should tell you that.

Here’s the lay of the land. This Sunday is Harvest Day, our church homecoming, and I had planned to make something really special for the fellowship hall. But I worked till 6 p.m. on a freelance story I had hoped to finish by noon. As a result, I will be taking “vaguely resembles homemade” mac and cheese to the fellowship hall. Hank the Cat is limping, and we can’t figure out why. Dave has a lingering cold, and we can’t figure out why. I have a sore shoulder, and we can’t figure out why. Mama lost the coconut cake our friend Sandra gave her—the one she has been making for at least a decade, probably two—and we can’t figure out why. I’m just “at sixes and sevens,” as an old saying goes, but I’m still . . . happy.

This week I had lunch with a very good friend from my Southern Living days and was reminded yet again of how lucky I am to have worked with so many amazing people—friends I still care about, still lean on, still look up to. And then this afternoon, I was grumbling to myself as I opened a package that I thought was filled with a boring maintenance drug from our mail-order pharmacy, but it was actually an incredibly thoughtful gift from another SL friend. “Mercy drops ’round us are falling . . .”

On top of all that, our special musical guests at church for Harvest Day will be the Gill family. Jimmy Gill and my uncle were high school buddies. That's the two of them, kneeling (center and far right), at the ground breaking for our church sanctuary around 1960. I went to school with Jimmy’s kids—church, too, when we were all children—and grew up hearing them sing together. His sister Joyce sang in our church choir for years. (Daddy once said that if you ever encounter somebody who can't sing but claims to be a Gill, “you’d better check that DNA because something’s off.”:) They are such a talented and musical family, and I’m too excited about hearing them sing to worry about whether I’ll make a royal mess on the piano because I haven’t had much time to practice.

I’m not sure where all this is going. Or if I even have a point. But I will say that (1) if you’re anywhere near First Baptist Church of Harpersville on Sunday morning, a great service will be starting at 10:30, followed by great food whenever we’re done singing, and (2) you never know when you're being used to bless somebody else.

I still have a book of gospel songs that I bought because I heard Jimmy’s family sing from it back in the 70s. And that friend I had lunch with this week? He has no idea how many times I have repeated to myself the advice he has given me over the years. As for the friend who sent Dave and me the unexpected gift? He could never imagine how much we needed that happy pick-me-up this week—or how much I learned from him at the magazine.

You never know how many ripples roll out from any good thing you do, any wisdom you share, any kindness you show.  You just never know.

Cast your bread upon the waters,
for you will find it after many days.
Ecclesiastes 11: 1

[Image by Geoffrey Whiteway @ Freerangestock.com}

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

This has been a weekend of goodbyes. It's hard to find the right words for friends and family members who have just lost someone dear. I hope they feel the love we are all trying to express, and I hope they are somehow comforted by it. Since I can't seem to find my own words, I'll share these:

For I am convinced that neither death nor life,
neither angels nor demons,
neither the present nor the future, nor any powers,
neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation,
will be able to separate us from the love of God 
that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Romans 8:38-39

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

When I was a child, a big tree got toppled at the edge of a cotton field behind our house. I guess a storm blew it down, but I really can’t remember. It fell just below a rise in the landscape, so you couldn’t see it from the house or the county blacktop that ran along the opposite edge of the field. I could climb up on that old fallen trunk and feel completely secluded. I called it my thinking tree. I would sit there on lazy fall afternoons and dream up all kinds of stories—usually with myself as the heroine. My real self was never very brave, but my imaginary self? Let me tell you, that girl has done some STUFF. She has been a rodeo queen, a rock star, a secret agent (anybody remember Honey West?), and the girlfriend of Donny Osmond—all from the trunk of that tree.

My original thinking tree disappeared into the hedgerow years ago, but I believe I've found a new one. I stumbled onto it taking a walk along a little paved road between Mississippi Sound and a coastal marsh. And now every time we go to that beach, I have to visit my tree. (I visit it from the safety of the pavement, mind you, because I am now living in the real world, and I'm certain there are some big ole snakes and alligators in that marsh.) My swamp tree is dark and mysterious and eerie. I want to know how it came to look like that. Who am I kidding? I want to unleash my imagination and make up stories about how it came to look like that.

One of the great wonders of living this life is that we always have the potential to have our spirits rekindled—for our sense of joy and wonder to be reborn again and again. Praying for you, this Sunday morning, moments of joy, wonder, and amazement.

 

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

Sometimes I think one of the most hurtful things we do to other people—from friends to total strangers—is question or criticize their choices. I now realize, for example, that some of the clothes I just culled from our closet were bad fashion choices for me, but I was excited about them when I bought them. And if I had let somebody talk me out of them, I wouldn’t have learned the lessons they had to teach me. (For example: That long, flowing skirt that brought out my inner hippie chick in the store does, on closer examination, make me look three feet shorter than I actually am, which is pretty blooming short. Knee length from now on. Lesson learned.)

Fashion judgments are small potatoes, of course. I’m talking about the big questions we get asked, sometimes by people who don’t even know us that well. I can’t speak for men, but it happens to women every day:  Aren’t you ever getting married? Why did you marry so young? When are you going to have children? Why do you have so many children? Why did you take that job? Why didn’t you take that job? Why are you going to work instead of staying home with your kids? Why are you homeschooling your kids instead of getting a job and using your education? Have you considered a facelift?

The thing is, the big choices in our lives are never decided easily. And I’m the first to admit that I’ve made some bad ones, real doozies I wish I could take back, but I can’t. I can only do my best to learn from them and move forward.  But I’ve also made some really great choices—great ones for me, even though they might not make sense to anybody else. And that’s true of everybody, I think. We make our choices, good or bad, based on our own experience, our own spiritual compass. We won’t all head in the same direction, but we can respect the individual journey and pray for each other's safe passage, wherever the road might lead.